“McClung wrote this piece for the Toronto Star Weekly 87 years ago, yet she and the article still speak to us. She was a model for the thinking woman then, and remains so today.”

Leslie Scrivener

Star feature writer

From the angle of human interest defeat is more attractive than victory, in as much as it is a more common experience, and the average reader can bring to the story a greater understanding, as well as a mind untinged with envy. Indeed the mind of the average reader may be described as a mind imbued with considerable fortitude, when contemplating the sorrows and disappointments of some one else.

Successful candidates are not given much scope in their speeches. They run in a pretty even groove. Borne down the street by the cheering throng which halted before the Herald building, with cries of “Speech! speech!” the successful candidate, carried aloft on the shoulders of his friends, addressed the surging sea of faces: “This is the proudest moment of my life . . . a man would be a dull clod who did not thrill . . . It will be my daily task to represent . . . this far flung dominion . . . your children’s children . . . till death us do part!”

Not much to that!

But the story of how people receive the news of disaster admits of great variety. Do they rage, or weep? Do they bluff it off with a jest? Or do they call high heaven to witness? According to the latest picture version, the great man comes home early on election day, and there in the seclusion of his own home, surrounded by a few trusted friends, calm, dignified, unmoved, mouth tight- lipped, head unbowed, face pale, but lighted by a valiant cheerfulness; he awaits the end!

And at a late hour, when all hope is dead with the adverse majority steadily mounting like a metre (sic) of a taxi-cab wedged in the traffic, and wires of condolence beginning to arrive, carried thither by gray-uniformed boys in stiff caps, growing suddenly tired of it all, the great man bids his friends an affectionate good night, and goes heavily up the broad stairs, the light from the upper newel post falling full on his noble face, and showing the lines of care — and the friends below disperse quietly, murmuring something about one of whom the world was not worthy.

And so to bed!

We did not do it that way.

We all gathered in the committee rooms, which the night before had echoed with our laughter, our foolish boasts, and idle words and before us on the wall a great blackboard bore the leering figures — that lurched and staggered before our eyes, changed every few minutes by one of the campaign managers. We were frantically cheerful, but it was all about as merry as an empty bird-cage. With sickly smiles abounding, seen and unseen, we sang, “See him smiling,” and “There’s a Long, Long Trail,” and speeches were made, and everyone did their best but there is no denying the fact that there was an outcropping of gloom in the exercises of the evening.

By ten o’clock we knew that one of our numbers was elected, one was defeated and I was hovering between life and death. We knew that the counting would take all night, and some of the faithful ones were determined to see it through, but I was ready to call it a day about eleven o’clock and leaving my political fate in the hands of the scrutineers, I came home and slept until I heard the clip-clap of the milkman’s horses, and the clinking of bottles on the back step, and through the open window I could see the crystal dawn leading in another day.

Then I remembered the unfinished business of the night before, but before consulting the telephone I looked out of the window for a while. It was so dewy green, and pleasant, and peaceful, with the shadows of the big trees making black lace medallions on the lawn. The voice in the telephone was announcing the names of the elected candidates.

No! Mine was not among them. There were five elected. I stood sixth. Just for a moment I had a queer detached sensation, a bewildered, panicky feeling, and in that dizzy fragment of time, it came home to me that for all my philosophy and cheerful talk, I had never really believed I would be defeated — but now . . . now . . . the boat had actually sailed — without me.

But just like David in his grief, the mood quickly passed. Why should I go mourning all my days. My political hopes had died in the night! What of it? They were not the only hopes.

My family behaved admirably at breakfast, even the youngest one, who is at the age when it is rather embarrassing to a have a mother of any sort, and particularly so to have one that goes out and gets herself defeated.

Thinking of many women who would be disappointed, and men, too, was the heaviest part of my regret. I knew how hard many of them had worked. I told myself over and over again that I did not mind . . . I suppose it does not require much fortitude to accept a stone wall . . . Anyway, I made a fine show of cheerfulness, and felt it, too.

But though I went about quite light-heartedly and gay, telling myself and others how fine it felt to be free, and of how glad I was that I could go back to my own work with a clear conscience, there must have been some root of bitterness in me, for I was seized with a desire to cook, and I wanted the kitchen all to myself. No woman can be utterly cast down who has a nice, bright, blue and white kitchen facing the west, with a good gas range, and blue and white checked linoleum on the floor (even if it is beginning to wear on the highways and market roads), a cook book, oilcloth covered and dropsical with loose-leaf additions, and the few odd trifles needed to carry out the suggestions.

I set off at once on a perfect debauch of cooking. I grated cheese, stoned dates, blanched almonds, whipped cream, set jelly — and let the phone ring!

It could tear itself out by the roots for all I cared. I was in another world, the pleasant, land-locked, stormless haven of double boilers, jelly moulds, flour sifters and other honest friends who make no promise they cannot carry through. The old stone sugar crock, with the cracked and handle-less cup in it, seemed glad to see me, and even the gem jars, with their typed labels, sitting in a prim row, welcomed me back and asked no questions. I patted their little flat heads, and admitted that the years had been long; reminded them, too, that I had seen a lot more wear and tear than they had. I loved the feel of the little white handled knife with which I peeled apples for pies. It lay comfortably in my hand and gave me the right vibration.

I am ashamed to have to tell it. But I got more comfort that day out of my cooking orgy than I did from either my philosophy or religion. But I can see now, when the smoke of battle has cleared away, that I was the beneficiary of that great promise respecting the non-overflow of the rivers of sorrow. We often get blessings that we do not recognize at all, much less acknowledge. But God is not so insistent about having his gifts acknowledged as we are! So long as we get them.

No, there was no overflowing of sorrow. I think I could not have endured it if my biscuits had been heavy, or my date trifle tough, or the pie crust burnt in the bottom. Nothing failed me. And no woman can turn out an ovenful of flaky pies, crisply browned and spicily odorous, and not find peace for her troubled soul! You’ve heard of the poet’s heart leaping up when he beheld a rainbow in the sky! The same cardiac condition prevails when your salad dressing has that satiny texture, which is a cross between the skin of an egg and whipped cream!

The next day I wanted to get out. I craved free life, and fresh air: open fields and open sky. I wanted to look away to the mountains, blue in the distance, with the ice-caps on their heads. So I went to Earl Grey golf course, and played all morning. It was a morning of sparkling sunshine, and I loved all the little blue bells and violets that spangled the fairways. The mountains stood by mistily blue, with some snow in their crevices, cool and unconcerned.

The game was not entirely successful. I was too conscious of the Elbow Park houses below me; some of them vaguely resentful: some overbearingly exultant; and others leering at me with their drawn blinds, like half closed conservatives eyes. I tried to concentrate on the many good friends I have there, but someway the wires were crossed, the notes were jangled, and not a gleam of friendliness could I raise.

I got on better, and did some splendid driving by naming the balls, and was able by that means to give to one or two of them a pretty powerful poke.

I played each morning, and at the end of three days I saw that my spiritual health was restored — I was able then to dispassionately discuss the whole matter.

The confessional is psychologically sound, for whether it is a sin or a sorrow, or both, it is well to drag it out into the sunshine and let the healing winds blow over it. Ingrowing grief it is that festers and poisons.

So now I am able to bring down all the evidence. I believe like Selina Peake’s father, in “So Big,” that every experience in life, pleasant or unpleasant, is so much velvet, if we know how to take it. I believe that the way to take trouble is to leave it! I know there is in all of us, when things go wrong, a tendency to stick and stall, and explain, and amplify, and recall, and all that; and it is all worthless and unprofitable. There is no more devastating emotion than self-pity; it withers and sears the heart, dries up the fountain of youth, and is bad for the complexion! This is no coroner’s inquest, no post-mortem on “How did it happen?”

I know how it happened that I was defeated. Not enough people wanted to have me elected! So there is no mystery about it — nothing that needs explanation.

But just why I thought I would be elected is a human interest story. I believe every candidate, who ran, believed in his own success. Hope springs eternal, and friends see to it that it does. Prior to election day, friends fairly bubble with enthusiasm. They haven’t a doubt or a fear in the world! They tell you the enemy concedes your election! The bets are all on you! I remember, though I did not think of it until after the election, that when a certain man ran for mayor in Edmonton some years ago, he had more names on his nomination papers than votes on election day!

Then there were the departing friends who earnestly desired to do their country one good turn before they left for their holidays. They came to see me. The first one said: “My dear, you simply must let your name go before the convention. We need you in the house. And after your five years of experience! You simply must not think of dropping out! What chance? — Oh, my de-ar! Everyone says you will head the polls. The baker spoke to me about you this morning. It seems his wife was in your Bible class in Manitoba. He’s so sorry he’s an American citizen, and so neither of them can vote, but they’ll work for you.”

I was greatly touched by her enthusiasm. I thought she must be a type of many. So she was. I met them everywhere. They sought me out, and entreated me to step out and save my country, and then having nobly performed their duty as citizens, one by one they sought the solace of the cool, sweet far distance places, where bird voices call, and waters idly lap the shore.

But they didn’t forget me! On election day, they sent me picture postcards, and in fairness I must add that at least three of them came back to vote for me.

Looking back on it now I see I went through the campaign with a sort of courageous imbecility! So many people told me I was sure to be elected, I seemed to forget that I had deep-seated, relentless antagonism from several sections of the community. Naturally, my opponents did not report to me, and I reasoned, apparently, from insufficient data. But, a few friends full of enthusiasm can create quite an impression. Mine appeared like an army with banners. I should have remembered that there was nothing remarkable, or significant, about this. Every one has some friends. The blackboards in front of the filling stations carried a wise word the other day. They said:

“Even cotton stockings have their supporters!”

I might have known that the liquor interests do not forgive the people who oppose them. Temperance people will forget their friends and cheerfully forgive their enemies at election time, but the liquor people are more dependable. Some of them spoke to me about my stand on prohibition, and told me quite frankly that if I would put the soft pedal on the liquor question they would vote for me.

And I didn’t. And they didn’t! And there are no hard feelings between us.

One grand old exponent of the cup that cheers and inebriates told me, with odorous conviction, that he was with me against the hard stuff, but a glass of beer never hurt any one! And then he told me sweetly reminiscent tales of his dear old sainted grandfather and other godly and rotund gentlemen of the old school who drank heavily and regularly — and died in the hope of a glorious resurrection.

But far more bitter and unyielding was the opposition of the Conservative element (my own part is not entirely free from it), that resents the invasion of women. Public offices, particularly those that carry emoluments, they believe to belong, by the ancient right of possession, to men. They are quite willing to let women work on boards, or committees, or indeed anywhere if the work is done gratuitously — but if there is a salary, they know at once that women are not fitted by nature for that! And God never intended them to be exposed to the dangers and temptations incident to such a post.

The dangers and temptations incident to office-cleaning at night, which is done by women, and the lonely homeward walk in the early morning when there are no cars running, is not so bad, for the work is sufficiently ill-paid to keep it quite womanly. And the curious part of this is that women can be found who will support this view. Not many — and not thinking women, just a few who bitterly resent having any woman go farther than they are ever likely to go.

Another feature, which works against any woman who runs for public office, is the subconscious antagonism of men who don’t want to work with women. Men are sub-consciously afraid of women! Afraid they will not play fair! No individual man is to blame — it is a racial trait, and will take a lot of working out. Men will work their fingers to the bone for women — but not with them.

And then, of course, opposing me were many wives! No one should criticize the wives! And I won’t! I saw many of them on election day. One told me quite sweetly — “I don’t know anything about this, but Charley is frightfully keen, and told me to give out these cards, and say ‘I hope you will vote our ticket’ — It’s all a beastly muddle to me — and bores me to tears!”

I thought of Mrs. Pankhurst and her heroic followers going to jail, and suffering the agonies of social ostracism, as well as physical cruelty, to win for women like these the right to vote, and with a less worthy emotion I thought of some of the efforts we had made here. I was like the young chap of five who denounced his one- year-old sister when she displeased him, in these scathing words: “I am sorry I ever prayed for you.”

Oh, well!

Life has compensation for all of us. When one door shuts — another opens. Basil King told us once, that the day he met with the accident that made it impossible to carry on his work as a clergyman, he bought a typewriter. I didn’t need to buy one. All mine needed was a new ribbon.

Some of the greatest Canadian journalists of today, on some of the greatest writers of yesterday. That’s the conceit that binds Hemingway to Atwood: An Anthology of Great Writers in the Toronto Star. Fourteen current Star journalists, having each chosen a piece by a notable contributor from the past, explain in an essay how that writer inspired them. Feature writer Leslie Scrivener, for example, argues convincingly that pioneering politician Nellie McClung speaks to us still, with her passion and her refusal to be cowed.

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